Are there good things? Happy things? Positive things? Yes. Of course there are. But so much of the negative and the bad and the unbelievable seems to be overshadowing anything that is good.

I find myself scrolling quickly through Facebook to bypass all of the things I don’t want to see or read. I’m in search of the happy dog with the flower on his head, the cat running away from the balloon, the videos of happy, smiling babies or cute kids dancing. I’ve been actively seeking out the light that the good parts of life can provide while burying my head in the sand about all of the bad.

Because seriously, what can I do about any of the negative? I feel like I have to face reality. Marching, emailing, calling… what does any of it do? Fall on tone deaf ears. Hearts that don’t care will not listen to the agonizing plight of millions. What is the point?

Yelling about the situation we have found ourselves in until we are hoarse is like pissing into the wind. There has to be another answer. Another way. What is the way?

I’m drowning in a sea of helplessness while listening to the cries of people screaming for aid around me. I feel like I have no help left to give. All I have left to offer are my thoughts and my prayers, and we all know that we can’t feed our children on that. We can’t right wrongs with that.

It is not your job to direct me or guide me to what I should do. It is my job to find my way, but I’m lost in woods that are overwhelming my sense of direction. So I stand here in the midst of the forest that we have planted, vines stretching across the ground and up into the trees, blocking the light. I wander aimlessly, unable to find the path that will lead me out of the darkness.

I went to bed last night before the results of the election were announced. I woke up at four and noticed the light was on in the living room. I knew my daughter was awake and was watching the results. I could not force myself out of bed to watch with her. I was too afraid. I was weak.

I finally left my room. I stood in the doorway between the hall and the living room and looked at my husband. He slowly shook his head.

I collapsed in a chair while I cried. “I don’t understand. How did this happen?” My daughter held me while I cried. She is strong.

The rest of the morning I walked around in a stupor muttering, “I don’t understand. What do we do now?”

My daughter stopped me. She took me by the shoulders and stared into my eyes. “We keep fighting.”

I thought about what she said on my way into work. How do we fight this? I wasn’t even sure what had happened at that point. I was still lost in shock and confusion.

Then I saw the exit polls. Then I knew what happened.

White people happened. White women happened.

Oh yeah, I know. Not ALL white women. But overwhelmingly, white women voted for Trump.

Maybe you are one of the white women who voted for him. Maybe these results don’t bother you.

I want to make it very clear. THESE RESULTS BOTHER ME.

My heart is breaking for all the marginalized people in this country. The people of color, the disabled, the LGBTQ+, the immigrants, the mentally ill, the poor.

I’ve supported. I’ve lent my voice. I’ve learned. I’ve shared. I have followed all of Jasmine’s Waking up White tips.

I want to do something more. I want to do something tangible and visible. I want to make it clear, without any doubts, that I stand for people of color. When someone sees me, I want them to know that I’m an ally, a co-conspirator, a friend.

All of the profits will be donated to Black Lives Matter. Because money is important, and while I don’t have a lot of it, I can do something to raise it and make sure it gets to the people who can use it. That is the very least I can do.

Today I am sad, I’m worried, and I am scared. But I’m not as sad, worried, or scared as my fellow citizens of color.

Transgender bathrooms… I’m torn between laughing because you know y’all been going to the bathroom with transwomen since you were kids and you never even knew it and being sickened by the level of hate that I see spewed on the daily. Not to mention how gross it is that you are using your children as a way to make your bigotry seem okay.

You know who does molest children? 90% of the time it is people they know. Like that nice old man at church that gives all the kids a piece of candy. Or the softball coach who wants to keep your daughter after practice to help her with her pitching. Or that nice neighbor boy that sells band candy and walks his cute puppy by your house every afternoon when your kids are outside playing. Or their scout leader, or a family member, or… you get the picture.

I get it. You don’t want to go to the bathroom with transwomen. At least be honest about why and don’t use your kids as an excuse. Because if you are going to stop shopping at Target to “protect the children” then you better stop going to church. And take your kids out of sports. And all of their other extracurricular activities. And don’t let them play outside. Or go to school.

You know what… just go ahead and lock them in their rooms until they are 18 because 84% of sexual abuse occurs in someone’s home. You can cut a slit in the door and pass their meals to them through that. Visit them every once in a while and read them a story. But make sure you have another adult in the room.

Now, keep your sanctimony to yourself. I get that you are a born again, Bible with the notes written in the margin, pearl clutching Christian. Keep your finger waggin’ to yourself anyway. I don’t need comments from anyone pointing out another person’s sin. That’s between them and God. Kind of like how you judging other people and walking around with hate in your heart is your sin. Don’t forget that all sin is equal in the eyes of the Lord. Self-righteousness doesn’t look good on anyone.

While we were dating, David was enrolled in college working towards his Associates degree for HVAC/Refrigeration. At the end of his last year, Budweiser offered him a job working on their refrigerated trucks. It was a significant pay increase. Our wedding was only a few months away. It seemed like a good option for us, but he turned down the job. I was shocked.

“Why did you do that?!”

“Because I can’t support or work for a company that goes against my beliefs.”

David witnessed the damage alcohol does to families. He was (and is) a non-drinker. He refused to work for a company that, in his opinion, contributed to the destruction of people’s lives. No matter how much they paid him. Despite my shock, this further solidified my opinion of the man I was marrying.

He is a good person. He is honorable. He stands by his beliefs. David cannot be bought.

The recent news stories about Kim Davis reminded me of when this happened. I think standing up for your beliefs is commendable. I can admire a person for doing that even if their beliefs are not the same as mine. It is important to not compromise what is important to you.

But here’s the difference… David didn’t take the job. He didn’t go to work and then tell them that he couldn’t fulfill his job duties. He didn’t try to convince them that they are damaging families. He doesn’t judge other people for imbibing. He never tries to force his beliefs onto other people. Not even me. His beliefs are his. He lives by them. No one else has to.

As county clerk I am responsible for providing many services to the people of Rowan county. These duties include general categories of clerical duties of the fiscal court: issuing and registering, recording and keeping various legal records, registering and purging voter rolls, and conducting election duties and tax duties.

She has a choice. She can fulfill the duties of her job or she can quit. She can choose to no longer work there because the duties of the job go against her beliefs. No one is persecuting her.

She is imprisoned because of bad legal advice and bad choices. She has a team of attorneys who are using her refusal to do her job as a platform. Eventually, the news cameras will go away and the team of lawyers will follow them. Her notoriety will fade the way of Joe the Plumber’s. She will be a blip. A trivia question on a morning radio show.

A person’s beliefs are important. Kim Davis’. Mine. Yours. Tom Cruise’s. Whether you believe in Jesus, Buddha, or aliens, it is important to stand up for your beliefs. It is equally important that you don’t force those beliefs onto other people. That is what Kim Davis is trying to do. That is why she is wrong. That is why she is in jail.

Brother and sisters, we need to have a talk. Since the massacre in Charleston last week, I have seen some pretty shocking things being said about what should happen in churches or how things could have gone differently if someone in the church had been armed or maybe, just maybe the pastor shouldn’t have voted against guns.

Which, let’s just stop for a minute right here and address that last one. People that is nothing but someone using a tragedy to further their own political agenda. It makes me sick to my stomach, and regardless of what you believe, you should find that as disgusting as I do. Attacking someone who died because they didn’t agree with your political platform is heinous. Period.

Now, let’s get back to the other thing I wanted us to talk about. Guns in Churches. Are you kidding me with this? Are you serious with this argument that pastors should pull out a gun Dirty Harry style and ask someone if they feel lucky? For real? If you are then we need to revisit John 18. Here’s what went down…

Jesus and the disciples were hanging out in the garden talking things over when some soldiers arrived and started questioning them. Now, Jesus knew what was coming. He had been planning on this happening since day one. He answered that’s who he was.

Now Peter, who had always thought that Jesus was going to be some kind of warrior, thought this was it. Time to fight. He jumped out with his sword and cut the ear off the high priest’s servant.

Then Jesus was all, “Are you serious right now? Did you really just do that? Put that sword away. Have you not been listening to everything I taught you about turning the other cheek and loving your neighbor. I told you this was going to happen. Do you have a problem with God’s plan?”

Now, I have paraphrased this a bit, but you can read it for yourself. As a matter of fact, please do go back and read it for yourself. I’m pretty sure that some of you have forgotten this lesson.

We like to walk around with those WWJD bracelets and talk about how we love Jesus and follow his teachings, but then some of you come and talk about carrying guns in church and shooting people (maybe you should also bone up on the commandments while you’re at it). Now do you really think that’s what Jesus would do? If you do you are wrong.

Jesus is the Prince of Peace, not the prince of packing heat.

The Bible warns us about false prophets. Now is a good time to separate the leaders who are fluff from those who are faithful. The faithful will be teaching you about love. They will be leading you in prayer for the victims and their families. They will be telling you to examine yourself for sin, not to examine others for theirs.

I know it is easy to be like Peter. We want to adopt the teachings that fit the way we think and believe. But that is wrong. You cannot pick and choose. You have to take them all together. And over and over and over again we see that Jesus was about love. If you aren’t, then maybe you aren’t a Christian.

Listen Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Open your ears. What do you hear? The soft hum of the air blowing. Traffic passing. Children laughing. Hearts breaking. Tears falling. Listen.

Listen. Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Open your mind. What are your thinking? What’s for dinner. An appointment you need to make. Pay the bills. Politics. Religion. Civil rights. Don’t forget. Listen.

Listen. Tears are falling. Hearts are breaking. Lives are changing. Worlds are colliding. Evil is lurking. Hate is winning. Listen.

Listen. Stop. Take a deep breath. Open your ears to the voices crying. Open your mind to the possibility. Open your heart to one another. Be brave enough. Be strong enough. To be different. To change. Listen.

~~~~

This came to me last night as I was laying down to go to sleep. I thought it was because of a writing prompt. Now I know different. It was about something I didn’t even hear about until this morning.

James repeats the same question over and over. “Can I tell you something?” It proceeds almost everything he says. I think it is because, as the littlest in the house, he is sometimes ignored. His voice gets lost in the stories and the errands and the distractions of a busy family. What is important to him isn’t always important to everyone else. Eventually, he gets frustrated and yells. “NO ONE IS LISTENING TO ME.”

While I’m sure that I’m guilty, I notice it most when it happens with his dad and sister. David and Cady have minds with a singular focus. When they are doing something, it is almost impossible for either of them to stop and divert their attention to something new. Their minds are absorbed with their own thoughts.

Most of the time, it is something simple. James wants to show Cady a new trick he learned in Minecraft, or he wants David to check out something on a video game they are playing. It isn’t the “thing” that is important. It is the fact he wants their attention. He wants them to listen to him. He wants to matter.

He starts quiet and small. “Hey Daddy, let’s check this out.” “Cady, did you see this hilarious video?” When he gets no response, he tries again. And again. And again. Next I hear the whimper in his voice. The hurt. The pleading. “Please listen to me.”

His frustration builds and builds. The longer his cries are ignored, the worse his reaction becomes. Eventually, he moves to all out anger, screaming, running from the room, slamming doors, sometimes throwing things, hiding away from the person that caused him pain. This is the point where the offender begins to notice there is a problem.

“What’s wrong with you? Why are you acting that way?”

“I just wanted you to listen to me. I was trying to tell you something.”

“I can’t believe you are acting that way. It is totally inappropriate.”

Is it? What does it feel like to be ignored? To tell people over and over and over again that there is a problem. What is like to try so hard to get people to listen to you, but to never get any attention until you do something they think is inappropriate? And then, after you’ve tried for so long to get someone to notice you by doing all of the right things, they label you a criminal, a loser, a thug. I wonder what that feels like. I wonder how much it hurts.

We, the majority of white America, have a focus problem. We are not paying attention to the people who matter. For too long, we have been intent on the things that are important to us and ignored the people around us while they have asked politely, while they have begged and pleaded, while they have cried out for us to please just listen. Now we are witnessing the fruits of our apathy.

Do I think violence is the answer? No. Never. But I do understand it.

I think the fact that we have ignored the voices of our sisters and brothers is at the root of the problem. I think part of the solution is for us to not focus on the results of our inaction, but to stop and listen to what the voices crying out in anger are trying to tell us.

This is the screaming. This is the running from the room. This is the slamming doors. This is the throwing things. This is our wake-up call. And instead of getting angry back, instead of putting our thoughts, our focus, our importance on these actions, it is time for us to stop and listen to the people crying out for someone to listen. It is time for us to tell them that they matter. It is time for us to open our eyes, our ears, and our hearts.

Owning things is fun. A new car, a nice house, the smartphone we can’t seem to live without — Getting new things is fun. We have to try out all the bells and whistles. Fiddle with the knobs. Find the best ring tone. Check out the new features. Move the sofa five times to find the perfect spot.

We can’t wait to show everyone. We take photos of that new car and put them all over Facebook. We drive over to our mom’s or a friend’s house to take them for spin. We have housewarming parties and invite all of our friends over to share in our excitement. We hop on twitter to share the news about our new phone. Hashtag iPhone6, Hashtag Love, Hashtag MyPrecious

Then the bill comes due. The first car payment, the monthly mortgage check, the monthly cell phone bill — Paying is not as fun as getting. We all know this.

But things aren’t all that we own. Our words, our reputations, our truths, our mistakes — We own all of those too, and it seems like no one wants to take ownership of those.

A few weeks ago something happened that sent shock waves racing through my online friends. Now, everyone is talking about Brian Williams. I’ve watched both of these things play out online. I believe both would have been stopped immediately with an upfront, simple apology. “I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

We all make mistakes. Sometimes because our memory fails, sometimes because we are ignorant of the hurt that our words cause, and sometimes simply because we are human and we screw up, but when we attempt to justify our mistakes it makes it look like we aren’t sorry that we committed them. Excuses weaken an apology.

“But I didn’t know.” “But I forgot.” “But I was distracted.” “But I…”

Maybe you didn’t know. Maybe you did forget. Maybe you were distracted. Maybe you had a really great reason for screwing up. None of that matters to the person that is hurting.

Taking ownership of your mistakes does not make you weak. It makes you honest.

Last night David and I sat in the living room discussing Ferguson, Mo. I was reading articles about what is happening there. Sadness, frustration, and anger fill me.

“This is ridiculous. I can’t believe this is happening in America.”

David is angry as well. “I know! Something needs to be done.”

“How can they get away with saying nothing? Doing nothing?”

“Because they’re the cops and can do whatever they want.”

“And because the person who was killed was black. This would never have happened if he was white.”

And there it is. The truth.

We talked longer. We discussed more of what is going on. We talked more about young black men being gunned down in the streets and nothing being done about it. Eventually James spoke up. “Please don’t say that word anymore.”

Killed is the word. Died. Death. He doesn’t like these words. They hurt his sweet, little soul. They scare him, and rightly so. He’s six years old and white; therefore, I have the privilege of not having to talk to him about these things at this time. I can shield him until he is older.

And there’s the word that I hate. Privilege. White privilege. This birthright that I inherited simply by being born to white parents. This thing I never asked for and don’t want. I want someone to take it back. I don’t deserve it, and I’ve never done anything to earn it.

The “it” being the advantageous treatment I’m automatically given simply for the color of my skin, when what is underneath is no different from my black and brown sisters. The blood, the bone, the muscle, the beating heart are all the same. The hand of the Father crafted us all.

I don’t want to be regarded differently. Treat me the same as you treat them.

Eye me with suspicion. Have security follow me through the store “just in case.” Make me work harder for every opportunity. Pay me even less than you do now for the same work the white man across the hall does. Arrest me more often, and when you do make sure that my sentence is longer. Clothe me in the suspicion of the welfare queen. Judge my nails, my clothes, my phone, my handbag, my music, my car against what you consider the norm or what you think I deserve.

Ask me if you can touch my hair.

Tell me you aren’t racist because you have A friend who is black. To my face, defend vile statements made by celebrities that I tell you are offensive. Co-opt my culture for your own. Put me in my place. Take my civil rights. Make it harder for me to vote and run for office. Refuse to learn or grow or know more about me and the challenges I face.

Make me pray harder when my son leaves the house. Make me worry that he will never return home. Make me teach him to fear the police, but to always act deferential because his life depends on it. Force me to teach my daughter that men will harass her in the streets and that she will be referred to as a bitch, whore, cunt, or animal if she defends herself.

Take back this privilege. Treat me the same as you do my black and brown sisters.

It is primaries season in Texas. Early voting started last week. That means politicians vying for our votes have littered our roadsides with signs, posters, and billboards in shades of red, white, and blue (all three for the most patriotic). I hate these signs. I think they are ugly and their only purpose is to clog landfills after the election.

But more than the signs, I hate the television and radio advertisements. With the advent of the DVR, I can mostly avoid the ads on TV, and when I can’t, I mute the channel. I NEVER, EVER listen to them. I find the radio ads the most annoying. There I’ll be cruising along, jamming to my favorite tunes, riding a high, when BAM! Out of nowhere comes blah, blah, blah, rhetoric, buzzword, blah, blah, barf. The barfing was from me in case you were wondering.

Ninety-nine percent of the time I change the station, and here’s some news for you radio station people, you don’t get me back until the next station pollutes my car with the sound of some politician droning on about how he or she is so much better than someone else. *barf* Does anyone ever actually listen to these ads, or worse yet, make a decision based on them?

And please, please, don’t think I’m a toe the party-liner when it comes to these types of ads. I hate them ALL. As a matter of fact here’s a list of 10 things I would rather listen to than a political advertisement by ANY candidate.

1. An ad for used cars.

2. That noise your straw makes when you move it up and down in a plastic lid.

3. Kidz Bop.

4. My alarm that wakes me up every morning at 5:15.

5. My kids whining.

6. The dryer buzzing every two minutes until I stop what I’m doing and take the clothes out already.

Jennifer is a wife and working mom of two. She spends her days working as an auditor, and her nights writing about life and parenting. The two favorite compliments she has received about her writing is that it is honest and real, but she delivers it all with a sass and grace indicative of her down-home Texas style. Read More…